


With His Hands

by MaddyHughes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Knitting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10108796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: This came to me in a dream, I have literally no idea, but it's filthy and involves knitting, so.





	

Hannibal Lecter is a man of many hobbies, some of them pretty damn weird and many of them involving sharpened implements, so Will doesn't give it much thought when he sees Hannibal sitting by the fire one evening with small, pointed knitting needles in his hands. He merely pours himself a whiskey, takes his own place on the sofa, opens his book and starts to read.

The needles in Hannibal's hands make soft clicks as a counterpoint to the fire crackling. It's quite peaceful. Despite everything, he feels more at ease with Hannibal than he ever has with anyone else. The only thing that would make this perfect would be a dog, snoozing in front of the fire, ears twitching with a dream about...

"I've made you a gift," says Hannibal. He's standing in front of Will, who didn't even hear him move from his chair. "Hold out your hand."

Will does, and Hannibal places something soft in it. It's of pink wool, so soft and fine that it seems almost not to be there. Will lifts it and dangles it from his fingers. It appears to be in the shape of a longish tube, almost like a narrow sock, except it's too small, and it's not foot-shaped. It's straight. One end is closed, and one end has a fine drawstring of wool. It reminds him of something, but he can't quite place it.

"Thanks," says Will, because when Hannibal Lecter gives you a gift, you need to thank him. Will has got the scars to prove this.

"You're welcome."

"What is it?"

"It's a cashmere and angora blend. Cruelty-free," Hannibal adds. "The goats and rabbits are free-range, and are combed for their hair to make into wool."

"Nice. Especially for the rabbits and goats. But that's not really what I was asking. What _is_ it?"

Hannibal smiles. "I thought you'd never ask. Allow me to show you."

Hannibal kneels in front of Will and reaches for Will's belt.

"I was reading," protests Will as Hannibal unbuckles his belt and unzips his trousers. There isn't much spirit to his protest, though, especially since he raises his hips to allow Hannibal to pull his pants and underwear down from his hips. And there especially isn't much protest as Hannibal takes his cock in one strong, talented hand and begins to stroke. Will's book is good, but let's face it: Hannibal is _very_ talented with those hands, the hands of a surgeon and a pianist and a chef and a killer.

His eyes flutter closed and he leans his head back on the sofa, the better to focus on what Hannibal is doing to him. He feels himself hardening, lengthening, responding to Hannibal's caresses. Idly, he wonders if Hannibal is going to use his mouth. He hopes Hannibal is going to use his mouth. The last thing on his mind is Hannibal's strange knitted gift, which slips from his hand onto the sofa cushion.

But what happens instead is he feels a strange, soft sensation on his dick. Like the whisper of the finest wool, combed from sleek rabbits and—

Will opens his eyes. His erection is encased in Hannibal's knitted /thing/. It fits him perfectly, as if made to measure. Hannibal is delicately tying the drawstring on the bottom.

"What the hell, Hannibal."

"Do you like it?"

"You knitted me a _cock sock_? Did you think I was _cold_ , there?"

"No," says Hannibal calmly. "I thought you might enjoy this."

And he begins to stroke the cashmere and angora cock sock up and down over Will's sensitised skin.

The friction is so subtle that it's almost undetectable. But its very subtlety makes it more absorbing. Will has to stay absolutely still to feel anything. Soft combed and knitted hair, slithering over the head of his cock. He holds his breath. Closes his eyes. A feather of a cloud, stroking him, caressing, more delicate than breath, softer and warmer than a blush.

A thread of a moan creeps out past his stopped throat, his clenched teeth. A bead of sweat gathers on his forehead.

It's like being made love to by a thought. A shadow. A dead loved one's wish, a current of the deep warm ocean.

Warmer and warmer, softer and softer, this tender thing made with sharp needles, a tease that builds and builds until Will raises his hips from the sofa and with a ragged cry, he climaxes deep into the heart of the shadow.  
  
For a moment, nothing.   
  
Then he takes a breath, the first he has taken for some time. He opens his eyes. Hannibal is watching him, eyes shining, mouth curled into the same proud smile he had when Will took a bite out of Cordell's cheek. He almost expects Hannibal to pat him on the head, say, _Good boy_.  
  
Then Will realises, and his heart stops. He's just come inside of Hannibal's gift. His hand-knitted gift, made of hand-combed wool.  
  
"Oh no," he says. "I'm sorry. Can we—can we wash it?"   
  
He looks down at himself. White viscous liquid is seeping through the fine holes at the tip of the sock, staining the wool a darker pink.  
  
"No," says Hannibal. "If we washed it, it would shrink, and be useless for our purpose."  
  
But he isn't angry, and Will knows he isn't going to be punished for soiling the gift. This is exactly the outcome that Hannibal wanted.

Hannibal unties the drawstring from the base of Will's softening cock, and gently lifts the sock from him. He uses it to wipe every drop and smear; then he lifts it to his nose, to scent.  
  
Will watches him. Hannibal is weird. But he, Will, is the beneficiary of that weirdness in many ways. So who is he to complain?  
  
Hannibal leaves the room briefly to dispose of the stained item, and Will does his pants back up. He's got his book in his hand again when Hannibal re-enters the room, but he doesn't open it. Even though nothing of him has been touched except for his dick, all of his skin is tingling and his entire body feels spent.  
  
"I understand the texture," he says, as Hannibal sits again in his chair. "But why pink? Is that the only colour they had?"  
  
Hannibal holds up the skein of wool. He looks from it, to Will's face, and back again. "It's the exact colour of your blush," he says.  
  
And then he picks up the pointed needles and begins knitting again.  
  
  
  



End file.
